


Never Going Back

by PokeChan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Idiots can't communicate, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 10:21:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19293760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PokeChan/pseuds/PokeChan
Summary: The First Day of the Rest of Their Lives had been eventful, in a word. They might not have freed themselves of their respective Head Offices for good, but they were free agents for at least a little while. It was nice, so long as neither of them thought too hard about it.





	Never Going Back

**Author's Note:**

> Baby's first GO fic. Read the book ages ago and I've rewatched the TV series like 3 times already. 
> 
> The similarities between Crowley's flat and Heaven were interesting to me, both ere very clean and crisp looking, but Crowley's always had more life in it. And of course the way that both of them kept their living spaces basically opposite to how their "Head Offices" presented was something fun too. So here, something like a little get together fic talking about that.

The First Day of the Rest of Their Lives had been eventful, in a word. They had swapped bodies, been kidnapped none too kindly to Heaven and Hell, convicted of treason, foiled their own and each others executions, and swapped back their bodies. All of that was followed up by a well deserved dinner at the Ritz as they finally allowed themselves to breathe, so to speak, and relax for the first time in eleven years. They might not have freed themselves of their respective Head Offices for good, but they were free agents for at least a little while. 

It was nice, so long as neither of them thought too hard about it. 

Aziraphale was looking forward to settling down for several days in his favorite armchair and doing little more than reading and drinking tea. He was ever so thankful that Adam had restored his bookshop and even more thankful that he hadn’t even had to see the burned, hollowed out ruins of what the fire had left of it. Aziraphale was well aware of what burnt up buildings looked like and applying that, even in theory, to his beloved shop was simply too dreadful a thought to entertain.

Thinking about it made him feel like he was back in Hell again. Hopeless, lost, world weary without even the courtesy of a reason or chance to rest, and just a bit frightened. 

It had been such an awful place with its dirty floors and walls and leaky ceilings and flickering fluorescent lights. The air was heavy and humid, thick enough to choke even a being who didn’t need to breathe, as if it was constricting one’s very essence. The grime of the place clung desperately to anything and everything and even soaking in a tub full of holy water did little to alleviate the sensation until Aziraphale had been ejected (the demons all peering fearfully at him from a distance as he swaggered off in the most Crowley-like fashion he could muster) and took a quick detour through a small but sweetly blessed church. 

Hell had been made all the more worse, in Aziraphale’s opinion, with the knowledge that that was where Crowley had to return to when he made his reports or when he needed a new body. To think that that was where Crowley was meant to call home! Hell, a home, with it’s darkness and noise and bullies and rusty pipes. No, Aziraphale told himself as Crowley drove them back to the bookshop. Crowley was never going back to that place, not so long as Aziraphale existed. 

Eyes uncharacteristically on the road, Crowley was thinking much the same that Aziraphale was. How Heaven had been absolutely awful. Too bright, too sterile, too barren. 

He thought angels were supposed to be beings of love for Sa- for Go- for Somebody’s sake. There was no love in Heaven. Not anymore. Everything up there was harsh, strict, and so fake it would have been funny to Crowley under any other circumstances. Sure at a glance it might have been pretty with its high ceilings and clean floors and crisp, white walls, but as soon as the dazzle of it all wore off you could feel how stale the air was, how it was so cold that even actual hell fire only warmed him superficially. Sure it was Heaven and all, but there was no life there, no vigor. It was stuffy in a way that was completely different from how Aziraphale’s shop was stuffy. Empty and lonely instead of filled and treasured. 

Crowley didn’t remember it always being like that, but it had been more crowded when he’d lived in Heaven.

Not that it mattered how Heaven used to be or how it was now. Aziraphale was never going back there. Not if Crowley could help it.

Those bastards up there were fools, idiots if they couldn’t see how wonderful Aziraphale was, how clever and brilliant and full of everything an angel was _supposed_ to be. They didn’t appreciate him. They detested him, looked down on him. And that was the worst thing anyone could do, in Crowley’s opinion. 

So no, Aziraphale would _not_ be returning to Heaven unless Crowley was well and truly dead and gone. 

He was careful not to seeth too openly with rage at the thought of those bastards as he pulled up to the shop. He threw the Bentley into park and turned to look at Aziraphale. 

Crowley knew that the angel wanted to go and reacquaint himself with his shop, feeling the need to see it safe and sound himself even though he hadn’t seen it burned away with his own eyes. Crowley could understand, he would probably have felt just the same about the Bentley if it had exploded without him there. For Hell’s sake he had been itching to see it again as soon as he realized Adam had fixed more than just what had happened on the airbase and he had had a chance to say goodbye. Still, he wasn’t exactly ready to part ways just yet either.

“Thank you for the ride,” Aziraphale said, voice quiet and smile small but honest. “And for a lovely dinner.”

Crowley flashed him a grin, because what else could he do? “Anytime, angel.”

“I suppose I’ll see you around.”

“Guess so.”

And this was where Aziraphale should have opened the door and stepped out of the car and into his bookshop. Locked up and gathered the books that he didn’t recognize, the ones that were (intentional or not) gifts from Adam, and settled in to read through them all with a steaming cuppa. And this was where Crowley should have sped off back to his flat, ready to terrorize his plants and sleep for a week. Or a month. Honestly he’d earned a decade at the very least.

But neither of them did that.

No. Instead they both remained where they were, one looking at the other and waiting for something neither of them could guess at without thinking just a bit too hard at things they had both been avoiding for far too long in Someone’s opinion. The Bentley’s engine hummed in the air between them, each of its gears vibrating with anticipation at what would happen next, who would move first. 

In the end, as was usually the case, Crowley moved first, leaned just a hair closer, began breathing again just so there was something for him to do. “Something on your mind, angel?”

That was the only push, it seemed, that Aziraphale needed to pour his worries out to Crowley.

“You’re not planning on going back, are you?” he asked. Crowley only had time to give him a puzzled quirk of an eyebrow before Aziraphale clarified. “I mean back,” he pointed to the floor of the Bentley, “Down There.”

“Not any time soon, no,” Crowley said, not really understanding why that was on Aziraphale’s mind at all, even if he was thinking the exact same thing but in the opposite direction. “Rather not give them a reason to see if their little holy water bath was a fluke or not.”

“Ah, good,” Aziraphale said, nodding a little too jerkily for Crowley’s liking. “Awful place, really. Absolutely dreadful.”

“Well yeah,” Crowley said quite plainly. “It’s Hell.”

Aziraphale didn’t want to go too much further into the subject and worry Crowley. After all, he’d been so hesitant about the idea of them swapping places when Aziraphale had suggested it and it had taken all night for him to finally convince his friend to agree to the trick. He didn’t want Crowley to think that Hell had scared Aziraphale. It hadn’t, not quite. Certainly not in the way Crowley expected it to have. On the other hand, however, it felt too much like lying if he stopped here. 

“I don’t want you to go back there,” Aziraphale said, letting the words leave him in a rush. He reached out and placed his hand over top of Crowley’s on the steering wheel. He gave it a gentle squeeze. “I had no idea it was so- I just- Crowley you _can’t_ ever go back there. I’d sooner set fire to my bookshop again _myself_ than have you ever have to step foot in that terrible place ever again.”

Crowley’s mouth dropped open slightly, hardly an inch, and he watched Aziraphale. First his face, then their hands sitting together on the steering wheel, then back to Aziraphale’s face. His eyes were wide behind his shades, but that was all Aziraphale could make out. With an audible swallow Crowley made to speak, “Aziraphale I-”

“Would you like to come in for some tea?” Aziraphale asked quickly, cutting him off, too nervous to hear whatever it was he might have had to say. He never took his eyes off Crowley’s face or let go of his hand. 

There was almost no reason for Crowley to come in for tea. They had just finished dinner. They had had tea and coffee and more champagne than most humans would think wise in one sitting. They had spent all evening talking, in each other’s company, and never more than two feet apart. Crowley had a huge, comfortable bed waiting for him back home and the nap of the century just begging to be had. 

He shut off the engine and stuffed the Bentley’s keys into his jacket pocket. “Yeah, why not?”

The bookshop was, indeed, just as Aziraphale had remembered it; filled to the brim, shelves laden with books from floor to ceiling, table tops and counters piled high with even more books, aisles between everything only wide enough for one person to pass through at a time, and a thin, characteristically fitting layer of dust settled just so over most everything. It was the same. It was crowded. And needed a dusting. Maybe a good wipe down. Perhaps polish up the wood a bit. It was silly, the bookshop had been like this for over a century, but after seeing Hell and the state it existed in Aziraphale was overcome with the incessant need to tidy up. 

He forced himself to ignore it. For now. 

While Crowley did his usual bit of trying to scare off the dust bunnies with nothing more than menacing look (not unlike a cat staring down a bird from the other side of a windowpane), Aziraphale made his way into the tiny kitchen and busied himself with the kettle and a pair of mugs. He focused very hard on keeping his hands busy enough that they would stop feeling the urge to clean. He focused so hard, in fact, that his mouth seemed to have sprouted a mind of its own and was rambling on of its own accord (which was very, very rude of it).

“I think I finally understand why you keep your flat so spacious and neat,” his mouth was saying. It wasn’t incorrect. All these many years Aziraphale had just assumed that Crowley preferred the stylish, sleek lines and artistic bareness that always followed him throughout his living quarters. Having something to contrast it against now, however, Aziraphale was beginning to have a different theory. “Not to tire the subject, but Hell was simply filthy, I really can’t blame you. I was down there hardly any time at all and I think I’ll be doing some cleaning up and reorganizing after a good rest.”

The kettle whistled, much sooner than it normally would have, but it probably knew that Aziraphale both wanted to get back to Crowley’s side and that he wanted his mouth to be quiet (it was ever so thoughtful like that sometimes) and Aziraphale smiled as he poured the hot water and headed towards his reading nook. 

Crowley was standing there, paging through a children’s book Aziraphale didn’t recognize. He put it back in what must have been its proper place when he heard Aziraphale set their mugs down on the tea table. He looked troubled, but before Aziraphale could apologize for his earlier ramblings Crowley spoke.

“Was Heaven always so cold?”

“I- what?”

“I don’t remember it much at all, you know,” Crowley started. His voice was uneven and he had stuffed his hands into his pockets. “But it couldn’t have always been so cold up there, right? So empty and harsh?”

Crowley had hated it. Every second up in Heaven had been awful, and not in a way that being around holy objects or on consecrated ground was awful. It was the kind of awful that got under your skin and wouldn’t wash off. It got in your head and stuck in there like chewing gum on the sidewalk. All while acting like it was the greatest thing in Creation. 

“I don’t remember what it was supposed to feel like,” he continued, “but not like that. Not so lifeless and stale. It was wrong!” He pulled his hands free and ran them through his hair and began pacing back and forth in the tiny space of Aziraphale’s reading nook. “It shouldn’t have felt so lonely and cold. It should have felt like this!” He gestured around the shop, arms opened wide. “It should have felt full and warm and soft and- and- lo-”

Crowley’s mouth snapped shut with a click. His eyes were wide, almost frightened, behind his sunglasses. 

“And what?” Aziraphale urged. He didn’t dare even breathe. 

A war was waged across Crowley’s face in the span of only a few seconds and when one side finally won he spoke. “And looked after,” he finished lamely. 

They both knew that wasn’t what Crowley had meant to say at all. 

For his part, Crowley did what he did best, and avoided the problem. He turned and started fixing up the tea. He was extra careful with the tea bags, measured out sugar for Aziraphale, even stirred it for him, before retreating to the small, two person couch he so often sprawled across. Tonight, though, he did not sprawl all long limbed and lazy while Aziraphale pretended to help customers or do inventory. No, he sat to the side and heroically did not curl up into a tiny ball of scales and evil. 

Aziraphale sat next to him, mug in hand. They sipped their tea quietly for a few moments.

“I don’t want you to go back there either,” Crowley said into his mug. “They’re awful Up There. And they don’t appreciate you. I’d just as soon take that holy water bath myself than see you bump wings with them again.”

Crowley didn’t look up to see Aziraphale’s reaction, but if he had he would have seen blue eyes shine with surprise, no small amount of concern, and something else. Something both of them had been ignoring. 

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that, my dear,” Aziraphale reassured. 

“Good.” Another sip. A loud one. Definitely on purpose, looking to get a reaction for a bit of normalcy. When Aziraphale audibly frowned at Crowley something loosened in his chest. “I’m thinking about redecorating,” he said.

He didn’t know how accurate Aziraphale’s theory was, but now he couldn’t look at his flat without seeing Heaven. The hard, clean lines and display-like quality of his flat was too sterile. Sure, everything was dark wood and black tile, but it wasn’t enough to separate Crowley’s new association with Heaven. His greenhouse room was fine enough, but he couldn’t just spend all his time in there. It would drive him and his plants mad.

(Sometimes parents needed time away from their children.)

“Oh? How so?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shrugged, desperately trying to seem nonchalant and just as desperately failing. “Thinking of getting a couch, especially if you come over more. Maybe a… er, table or two…” 

And then it struck Crowley that he had no idea how to make his living space more like how he wanted it. More like the bookshop. More like Aziraphale lived there as well. And _oh_ , that last one was a rather startling thought. In all the many, many years they had known each other, been friends, Crowley had never considered _that_. Of course, now that he had it was all he could think about. He and Aziraphale. Living together. Making a home that was all their own. A combination of everything they enjoyed. Together. As free agents. 

There was no one to tell them no aside from each other.

“Crowley?”

He would say it was easy if anyone ever asked him about it later, taking off his shades and leaning over to cup Aziraphale’s soft cheek in his hand. He would tell them it was as natural as tripping a rude businessman (who looked a little too much like the Archangel Gabriel) too engrossed in his cellphone to notice the world around him when he retold the story about the first time he ever pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s for a kiss that was gentle and sweet but full of meaning and promises and forever. He would say he wasn’t scared of being rejected or pushed away and that the way his heart seemed to soar when Aziraphale pulled him closer and deepened the kiss was not relief but excitement. 

“Have you ever considered retirement, angel?”

**Author's Note:**

> They deserve a happily ever after and I'm going to give it to them if it kills me.


End file.
